


only poetry could even begin

by kindclaws



Series: bingo, chopped, and prompts [7]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartender!Bellamy, F/M, Florist!Clarke, Fluff, Madi is a great third wheel, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-11-27 20:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20954177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindclaws/pseuds/kindclaws
Summary: Four times Bellamy needed flowers from Green's Goods, and one time Clarke did.





	only poetry could even begin

**Author's Note:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:** Aurora Blake dies in this fic and various characters prepare her funeral, but not in great detail. Otherwise very fluffy. :)
> 
> I know @thefangirlingbarista requested Florist!Clarke and Bartender!Bellamy for sure, but I could not for the life of me find the original prompt, so Jess, I hope this is close to what you're looking for? Hopefully fluffy enough? 
> 
> fyi, This Author Hates Finn Fuckboy Collins.
> 
> **PERMISSIONS:** Please do not download and save this fic locally. I make frequent revisions and don't like the idea of old versions being out there, and if I ever decide I hate it, I'll orphan it rather than delete it so you'll still be able to find and read it! I'm open to translations and podfics, but please contact me on tumblr first. Do not upload to other sites. Do not claim as your own.

**I.**

Clarke and Monty get about forty seconds of warning before the Beautiful Man enters their flowershop on a rainy day in May. They see him crossing the parking lot through the kaleidoscope of raindrops on the storefront’s window, a certain confident weight to his walk that Clarke knows instantly is going to cause trouble. Monty slams the cardboard box of fertilizer he’s carrying onto the nearest counter so hard that Clarke jumps and says, in a forceful tone of voice -

“_Nope_. Too hot. I’m bailing.”

“Your moves are weak!” Clarke calls at Monty’s retreating back as he scurries up the iron-wrought staircase behind the counter that leads up to the loft where they store overflow supplies. He hides up there, out of view, with seconds to spare. The bell on the door chimes out in a light and airy tone as the Beautiful Man swings it open and comes inside, stomping his boots against the welcome mat to shake off some of the drizzle. The flowershop is empty today, the town of Arkadia having temporarily decided to stop throwing weddings and funerals left and right for a few hours. There was an old man who came in to pick up an anniversary bouquet earlier, but aside from that it’s been a quiet day, and the chimes of the bells echo into the solitude.

“Welcome to Green’s Goods,” Clarke says brightly as the Beautiful Man’s eyes make a wide sweep over the outrageous amount of foliage that gives their flowershop a distinctly jungle-like appearance. “Let me know if you need any assistance.”

“Yeah,” the Beautiful Man says, nodding thoughtfully and walking around a stray crate of peonies to get to her counter. “I do need assistance, actually.”

Clarke resists the urge to look up and roll her eyes at Monty.

“My name’s Miller,” the Beautiful Man says.

“Clarke.” She points, needlessly, on the badge on her flannel shirt. “What can I help you with today?”

“My friend’s graduating,” Miller says. “I need a flower arrangement that says, _I’m proud of you_, but also, _you’re a fucking nerd._”

Clarke can’t help but laugh in delight. She rolls up the sleeves of her flannels, already anticipating a fun project, but she’ll need more to go off than just that. They get a lot of customers coming in asking them to make something that has a translation in the language of flowers, but it doesn’t really work like that. In real life no one’s fluent or cares enough to be, and even if they were, the meaning of flowers is no guarantee that they’ll look good or be practical in a bouquet together. With most customers Clarke just smiles and nods, but Miller’s willingness to say the f-word in the second sentence he’s ever said to her is enough to relax some of the customer service persona.

“You know florists don’t actually know what every flower means?” Clarke says, bracing her elbows against the counter and giving Miller a conspiratorial look. He pauses.

“I didn’t know that, no,” he says. “Assume I know nothing. I killed a cactus once.”

If Miller hears the very quiet sound of despair that comes from the loft above them, he gives no indication.

“What’s your friend studying? Are flower meanings going to be meaningful to them?”

“History,” Miller says instantly. “Something Greco-Roman. Sorry. I don’t love him enough to read his thesis. Any ideas on how to roast him without the language of flowers?”

“Do you have your heart set on a bouquet?”

Clarke and Miller both startle slightly to find that Monty has crept out of hiding and is peering down at them from the loft’s top step, a leafy clump of gladiolus sprigs tucked underneath his arm. Clarke at least knew he was up there, lurking and making her deal with the beautiful customer, but Miller does a second take, and it takes him a moment to gather himself.

“Not necessarily, no,” he says.

“How about a laurel crown?” Monty says. “I’m pretty sure they were traditional for Olympic victors. It could symbolize victory over academia. Should make the History major happy.”

“That’s perfect,” Miller says. “You’re hired.”

“Me?” Monty hisses, shooting a furtive glance at Clarke.

“I mean, if you don’t mind,” Miller says, looking between him and Clarke.

“Monty’s better with the green stuff,” Clarke says, quietly pleased with her maneuvering, even as Monty discreetly shakes a fist at her while Miller’s not looking. “I’ll make the wire frame, you go get the damn laurel leaves.” To Miller, she says: “Give us… twenty minutes?”

Clarke twists some wires into a simple horseshoe frame and tests it on her own head under the staff bathroom’s humming flourescent lighting. When she walks back out to the front of the shop Monty is already perched on a stool, arranging sprigs of laurel in a neat row on the counter and clipping a few stray yellow leaves. In the time it took her to make the frame, he and Miller apparently found they have some video game in common, and Monty’s smile is warm and genuine as they trade comments. He still grabs Clarke’s wrist when she tries to sneak away though, so she pulls up another stool and helps him weave the laurel into the frame. She airbrushes it with a faint sheen of golden paint at the end, and it gives it a subtle, eye-catching gleam.

She hands it over to Miller somewhat regretfully. A simple project, and yet she finds herself more fond of it than most of the more elaborate wedding arrangements she makes.

“This is fantastic,” Miller tells them. He doesn’t seem like a person who smiles often, but the faint uptick at the corners of his mouth as he holds the crown up under the light is enough to make Clarke pleased and Monty beam. “I intended to make fun of him, but this is better than anything I could have come up with. Thanks.”

“Come back soon!” Clarke calls out after him as he leaves, the chime of bells marking his departure, as Monty slaps her arm. She slaps his arm back once the door swings shut and Miller is striding away. “There was a rainbow pin on the back of his jacket,” she hisses at him. “You totally had a chance, you idiot.”

Monty lets his forehead fall onto the counter into a few remaining laurel leaves with a _thump_.

“He was too beautiful,” Monty mutters. “Too cool for me.”

“You don’t _know_ that,” Clarke scolds. “You have to commit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Monty says, bumping their shoulders together. And they think that’s the end of it.

“Can I be legally held responsible for punching him if it turns out he sucks?” Madi asks from the backseat as Clarke parks.

“I mean, probably,” she says in response, a little bit distracted. She’s an entire adult now, with a job and a foster kid. Why is parallel parking still beyond her?

“But I’m only 12,” Madi argues. “Can’t I say it’s like, hormones?”

“Is this your way of telling me you’re starting puberty?” Clarke asks, finally giving up and deciding her parking job is good enough. “Because you know I’m very positive about these sorts of things, and we can have honest and vulnerable conversations - “

“Oh my god,” Madi says dramatically. “Clarke I _know_. You are so embarrassing.”

“You’re welcome,” Clarke says, twisting around in the driver’s seat and giving Madi a dopey smile. Then she takes a deep breath and tries to settle her nerves. “But I’d really rather you don’t punch him, honestly. Sometimes people just aren’t very good at getting their personality across in texts. He might be a really nice person, and I’d like to give him a chance to impress me.”

“But you _said_ I can scare him off if he sucks,” Madi whines as they get out. Clarke looks up and down the sidewalk, but doesn’t see anyone within earshot that looks like the photo in her dating app, so she doesn’t urge Madi to be nice just yet.

“If he sucks, you won’t have to do much to scare him off,” Clarke says, stepping up onto the sidewalk and reaching for Madi’s hand. Her chest feels warm and tight when Madi takes it without hesitating. Eventually, maybe, she’ll be too cool to hold Clarke’s hand in public, but for now the easy affection between them is a constant source of happiness in Clarke’s life. “Meeting the family is a pretty big deal when you’re dating someone. If he’s not serious about us, you just showing up and being your lovely teenage hellcat self will make him run away.”

“Yeah, I’m a hellcat!”

Madi bares her teeth in response and makes happy growling noises at random passerbys as they walk down the sidewalks until a sign over a cozy-looking storefront tells Clarke they’ve reached the board game bar Monty and Jasper suggested to her. When she opens the door they’re hit with an interesting waft of spice and coffee and alcohol, but not an overwhelming or unpleasant one. Madi sniffs curiously at the air as Clarke negotiates getting her an underage bracelet with the bouncer.

“Can I get a hot chocolate?” she asks, tugging at Clarke’s rain jacket as her eyes track a monstrous whip-cream-topped concoction carried past them by a server.

“As soon as we’re sitting,” Clarke responds. She scans the bar but sees no familiar faces. There are two pinball machines at the front, near the windows, and the crowd clustered around them seems to be mostly college-aged and a little drunker than she plans to get tonight. Towards the back there are massive shelves lined with all sorts of board games, sorted by genre and difficulty. Clarke peeks at the booths that they pass by, but it looks like she and Madi have arrived first, so they pick an empty booth and settle in. Madi momentarily forgets about her hot chocolate in favour of going to examine the shelves of games. Clarke takes the opportunity to pull out her phone and text her date.

_Clarke: hey! I grabbed us a booth._  
_ Finn: heyyy babe, sorry I’m running late, b there soon_  
_ Clarke: no problem! my foster kid and I are getting settled in. :)_

Madi returns with a game that seems like Jenga, but with ten times more rules and proprietary trademarks.

“That’s two-player, kiddo,” Clarke says, checking the box. “We need something for three people, unless you want to team up with me.”

Madi scowls.

“Was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” she says, and stomps back to the shelves. In the meantime, Finn has responded.

_Finn: you were serious about the foster kid????_

A feeling like creeping cold settles over Clarke. She bites her lip and looks up quickly, making sure Madi is still engrossed at the back of the store. She trusts Clarke now, but getting her to feel like her placement was permanent, like she would be safe and loved and treasured from now on, was a difficult and slow process. Clarke’s been wanting to get back into the dating scene for a while now, but Madi is more important than anything else in her life, and Clarke needed to make sure Finn would click with her and Clarke’s responsibility to her.

The evening isn’t lost yet, but his response doesn’t inspire a lot of faith in her. Still, she makes an effort to text back cheerfully and obliviously.

_Clarke: yep! she’s excited to meet you._

Technically it’s not a lie. Madi’s very protective of Clarke, and eager to demonstrate this at every opportunity, so in a way, she _is_ excited. Just not the way that really furthers Clarke’s romantic prospects.

_Finn: I have to go, sorry, something came up._

She swallows hard and puts the phone down. So that’s it. Clarke didn’t even like Finn that much. He talked a little bit too much about himself, was a little bit too defensive when Clarke raised views they disagreed on. But she didn’t realize how much she was hoping he’d win her over somehow until she gets that text and realizes they won’t be having a pleasant date tonight, or any other night to come.

Madi touches her elbow. Clarke didn’t even hear her come back to the table. She still walks quietly, like a wraith, years of hiding ingrained so deeply in her Clarke thinks they might be permanent. She deserves better than someone like Finn to join them in their life together.

“He’s ghosting you?” Madi asks.

“Yeah,” Clarke admits, and forces a smile.

“Because of me?”

“No,” Clarke insists. “Because of _him_. Maybe because he’s not mature enough, maybe because he’s not in the right place in his life. But that’s not your fault. You were mine first, so I’ll always choose you first.”

Madi climbs into the booth and hugs her very tightly. Clarke rubs her back and smiles despite everything.

“Love you,” she says to Clarke’s hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to punch him.”

“Love you too. You can get that board game you picked out, if you want. We’re here already, we’ll have our own date.”

“I’ll be a great boyfriend,” Madi says, and clambers off the bench. Their waitress, a woman with kind eyes and curly hair pulled back into a low ponytail, sees Clarke’s availability and swoops in.

“Hey there, can I get you anything for tonight?”

“The deluxe hot chocolate,” Clarke says, her gaze skimming the chalkboard menu over the bar. “And…”

She suddenly notices the bartender, because he laughs out loud at something someone leaning over the bar tells him, and it’s a beautiful laugh, something low and rich and genuine. And on his head of unruly dark curls is a gold-tinged laurel crown.

“Holy shit,” Clarke says. “I think I made that laurel crown yesterday.”

The waitress looks over her shoulder at the bar and blinks.

“You mean the one Bellamy’s wearing? He got his Masters today, I think one of his friends got it for him?”

Clarke grins. And here she and Monty thought they’d never get to hear how Miller’s gift panned out.

“I made it,” she says. “I work at Green’s Goods, up by Mecha High?”

“No way,” the waitress says with a laugh. “That’s such a cool coincidence.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says. Part of her still feels giddy, the room spinning around her even though she hasn’t had a drop of alcohol tonight. She forces herself to look back up at the menu and read the words on the chalkboard. “Sorry to take up your time. I’ll have, um, the lightest thing you’ve got on tap, I have to drive home tonight.”

“Gotcha,” the waitress says, writing it down with a flourish, and gives her a sweet smile before sweeping off. Madi slides into the other half of the booth, three boxes piled in her arms. Clarke hardly notices her, and this probably makes her the worst foster mom in the world.

She’s - she doesn’t believe in love at first sight. Her parents always used to say that’s what they had, and it was a cute story until it fell apart and they couldn’t stand to even live in the same town. Clarke’s been a lot more practical about her relationships since then, always trusting her head over her heart, but deep down she still feels the yank of sudden attraction to people sometimes. It’s not love, not yet, but it’s a hook buried under her skin, an awareness of someone. A passing interest in something beyond their appearance - maybe their voice or the way they treat a stranger or the first smile they give her, that digs its claws into Clarke and makes her wonder. And from there, with work and patience, maybe love.

“Wow,” Madi says. “Your face is really red right now.”

She follows Clarke’s gaze to the bar and tilts her head at the bartender who’s showing off a little bit, pouring shots with high, arching streams of liquor.

“I’m pretty sure Monty and I made that laurel crown he’s wearing,” she explains to Madi, purposefully dragging her attention away from the bartender’s crooked smile to a narrative she can hide her flush behind. “We had someone come in looking for a graduation present for their friend. They used to wear those crowns at the Olympics, you know. They symbolize victory.”

“Very cool,” Madi says, nodding sagely. She grabs Clarke’s hand. “This evening isn’t lost after all! Let’s go talk to him.”

“What!” Clarke hisses. “No. Are you kidding? No. We’re hanging out, we’re gonna have a wholesome family board game night. I ordered you a hot chocolate. Sit down.”

“I am _trying_ to get you a hot date,” Madi says, rolling her eyes. The waitress with the curly hair is walking towards them with two drinks in her hands, and Clarke very desperately hopes she’s still out of earshot.

“Oh my god, Madi,” she says. “Seriously, you have nothing to feel bad about. Finn isn’t your fault, sometimes things just don’t work out, so it’s just us tonight, and that’s _okay_.”

“I _know_ it’s okay, Clarke. You’re always telling me it is,” Madi says as the waitress sets down their drinks. Clarke gives her a quick, fleeting smile, before Madi drags her attention back. “But… you’re allowed to be selfish, okay? You’re allowed to want to be happy. And right now, I am telling you we should go talk to the hot man in the plant crown.”

“Laurel,” Clarke says immediately.

“_Whatever_.”

They take their drinks and Madi picks out one of those games that involves holding a random card up to your forehead and asking questions to guess what it is. Clarke notices it just so happens to be the sort of thing one could easily add a third player too and shakes her head, hoping Madi is at least _discreet_ about the shenanigans she’s surely currently planning.

“Hello Mr Flower Crown,” Madi says to the bartender as she clambers up onto the bar stool nearest to him. “My name is Madi. This is my foster mom, Clarke. She’s a florist and we think she made your crown.”

_You’re really just going for it, aren’t you?_ Clarke thinks to Madi, and hopes her face isn’t doing embarrassing things as she takes the stool next to her. The bartender looks between them both with an amused half-smile and gently reaches up to touch the crown on his head, as if he forgot he was wearing it. Up close he’s even more beautiful. Freckles spanning warm olive skin, a certain intensity behind his brown eyes that makes Clarke feel like he’s looking through her as his gaze settles on her. She feels very warm.

“Hello, Madi,” the bartender says, and Clarke is even more pleased that he addresses Madi first. She likes to feel important to the adults around her. His gaze comes back to her. “Clarke. I’m Bellamy. Can I get you anything?”

“We’re all good right now, thanks,” Clarke says with a bashful smile, gesturing at her glass. Bellamy does a double take like he’s noticing it for the first time and shakes his head subtly.

“Right, of course,” he says. “Well, uh - thanks for the crown, I guess. It’s a really neat, really thoughtful idea, and Miller says he didn’t come up with it on his own, so… thank you.”

“He’s the one who told us you were studying Greco-Roman history,” Clarke says, “So you still have to give him _some_ credit. My coworker thought he was really cute, by the way. He was kicking himself for not asking for your friend’s number. Just in case that’s useful information.”

Bellamy looks delighted.

“It really is, thank you,” he says. “You should know he left an impression on Miller, too.”

“It’s all coming together,” Clarke says, dramatically spreading her hands. She’s grinning now, can’t help herself as she feels the ice melt, and Bellamy’s smile does all sorts of things to the butterflies in her stomach.

“You should go to her shop if you need any more flowers,” Madi tells him helpfully, and Clarke can hardly keep a straight face. “She’s a really good florist.”

“Is that so?”

“I do all right,” Clarke says mildly. Madi pulls the box off the guessing game she’s brought up to the bar and starts shuffling the concept cards.

“Do you want to play with us?” Madi asks.

“Madi,” Clarke says, poking her leg underneath the bar counter. “He’s working, let him be.”

“Tell you what,” Bellamy says, scanning the bar quickly. “I can’t commit, but it’s a pretty quiet night today. I’ll drop by for a round or two occasionally.”

To Clarke’s shock and Madi’s obvious delight, he really does join in whenever no one at the bar needs something. The hook of attraction that’s dug into her keeps her permanently aware of where he is, her body humming like a live wire. Even when she sits sideways at the bar counter, facing Madi, she hears him stacking glasses behind her, talking with other patrons. She doesn’t think her heart drops down to its resting rate at any point that night.

Especially not when Madi’s given her this one card she just can’t guess, and Bellamy leans in on the counter. The gold sheen on his laurel crown glints like treasure under the bar’s yellow-white light. His eyes are dark and bottomless. Clarke’s skin prickles.

“How close are you to this one?” he asks.

“We’ve figured out that I’m a type of person and I’m not found in most households,” Clarke says, feeling a little exasperated. She just hasn’t been able to guess this one. Madi has figured out both _tomato_ and _The Hulk_ in the time Clarke’s been stuck on her current card, and now Madi is sitting across from her with _Eiffel Tower_ stuck to her forehead and a very smug grin.

Bellamy’s gaze flickers back to Clarke’s forehead. Something about her card must be funny to him, because she thinks he’s struggling not to smile.

“No,” he says. “You’re something special.”

It makes her shiver. She and Madi go back and forth for a few more questions and Bellamy drifts off to get someone’s bill. Madi starts to yawn, her eyelids drooping, and it’s a school night, so Clarke calls it quits. She takes the card on her forehead down and reads it. _Princess_.

“Really?” she mutters.

“You guys should come back,” Bellamy says, bringing their bill when he sees them packing up.

“I bet you say that to all your customers,” Clarke says teasingly, the words slipping out before she can stop them.

“No,” Bellamy says. His lips quirk. He looks unfairly attractive and it’s a little bit irritating. “Just the ones I like.”

“Well,” Clarke says, ducking her head. “Maybe we’ll see you around after all.”

In the car, before putting her seatbelt on, Madi leans forward and winds her arms around Clarke’s headrest. Her breath spills over the side of Clarke’s face, smelling like the two Deluxe Hot Chocolates she had tonight. Bellamy added cinnamon to the second one with a wink that said he wasn’t going to charge them for it.

“Bellamy passed the Family Test,” Madi tells her helpfully. “You should date him instead of Finn.”

“The Family Test?”

“Yep. Didn’t run off screaming just because your kid third-wheeled you.”

“He didn’t have a choice,” Clarke says dryly. “He was working. And it wasn’t a date.”

“But you like him?” Madi says, touching her cheek. Clarke closes her eyes.

“Yeah. I do. Put on your seatbelt.”

**II.**

Two months later, Clarke’s in the shop when the phone rings. Monty’s up to his elbows in a pot of hyacinths, so Clarke picks it up.

“Green’s Goods,” she says. “What can I do for you today?”

“…Clarke?” the person on the other end of the phone says. The voice is familiar but the tone is foreign and the hair on her arms stands on end, knowing what’s coming before her brain does.

“Bellamy?” Clarke says.

“Yeah,” he says. “You… you did a really good job on my laurel crown. It dried out but I still have it at home. It’s really nice.”

“Thanks,” Clarke says softly. His voice sounds distant, and it’s not the phone. “Bellamy, are you all right?”

“…I need to request an arrangement for a funeral,” he says, his voice wobbling just a little on the last word. Clarke closes her eyes in sympathy. They get these calls a lot, so it shouldn’t hurt, but it still sort of does.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

Most people don’t realize just how _big_ casket spreads are. Monty helps Clarke load it into the back of their delivery truck, gently, and then the door slams and it’s time to go. The funeral isn’t for another hour but Clarke’s job is to get there before the mourners and make sure everything’s set up. Death doesn’t really bother her like it bothers most people. She briefly considered going into the funeral business, actually, but now she just handles most of the funeral requests Green’s Goods gets.

When she gets there she finds Bellamy sitting outside on a bench, folding and unfolding a piece of paper in his hands so many times it looks like it’s tearing at the creases. Clarke hesitates before going to join him, because - they’re not friends. Not exactly. She and Madi have been back to his bar twice more since the night Finn stood her up, and he’s been friendly, but. He’s a bartender, he’s supposed to be friendly.

There’s none of that usual good cheer on his face now. He sits bowed over as if holding up some great weight. His forearms are propped up against his knees, and his eyes are distant. She can guess what’s on the paper.

Clarke sits gingerly next to him, saying nothing for a while. They’re silent together long enough that she begins to think she should go. Make sure the arrangement is laid out. She put together a good one for him, asphodel and lilies and very small budding white roses and blue thistle. The thistle was a weird choice, but when he came into the shop to see what stock they had he held it in his hands far longer than any of the others with a sad and thoughtful look on his face, lost in some memory. He might not be in a place where he can notice those details today, but if he is, she hopes he appreciates it.

“Some days I think my mother was a good person trying her best,” Bellamy says at last. His voice is hoarse. She leans against him silently. “And some days, I wake up hating her. I don’t know why I can’t make up my mind.”

“People are complicated,” Clarke says quietly. She thinks he understands what he’s saying. She’s had people like that in her life too.

“There’s… there’s a lot of people coming today to celebrate her life,” Bellamy says, forcing the words. “And they want me to stand in front of them and say things about her. And if I only say the good, I’ll feel like I’m lying to them.”

“I don’t know if it’ll help…” Clarke says hesitantly, and Bellamy turns to her, eyes wide, a little desperate, urging her to go on. She wets her suddenly dry lips. “I’ve set up at a lot of funerals,” she says. “Heard a lot of families’ stories. And as far as I can tell, funerals mean a lot more for the survivors than the person who’s actually died.”

They are quiet for a while longer as a chill wind blows at Clarke’s hair, sends it whipping against his ear and shoulder. He doesn’t seem to mind, staying close.

“Thank you,” he says. He puts the piece of folded paper into the pocket of his dress pants and sits up slightly straighter, an Atlas with a few continents removed from his shoulders. He touches her hand very hesitantly, maybe aware, like her, that they are not really friends, and that even now, Clarke’s still kind of operating in a professional capacity. “Thank you,” he says again, and the second time she really believes him.

The rhythmic click of heels against pavement draws their attention. A woman marches up the path like she's coming late to a war. She falters a few steps away from Bellamy, and Clarke sees him hesitate before raising his arms for an embrace. 

"Who are you?" the woman asks brusquely, stepping into Bellamy's orbit as though it is instinct. She keeps him at her back and Clarke in her sights, like Clarke is a threat to ward away.

"The florist," Clarke says, feeling awkward. "I was - I was just about to go."

"You do that," the woman says. It doesn't come across as though she is being particularly cruel or intentional, nor is it the worst that Clarke's been treated at a funeral she's delivered for. People become strangers of themselves when they're grieving. She doesn't take it personally.

"Clarke," Bellamy says, his fingers reaching and brushing at her arm before she can turn away. "This is my sister. Octavia. O, this is Clarke. She... she's my friend."

It's a terrible occasion for to bind them, but Clarke manages a weak smile all the same. The woman - Octavia - gives Clarke a second look, and Bellamy's words make her shoulders drop a little, the tightness around her dark-rimmed eyes relax ever so slightly. 

"Thank you," Octavia says stiffly. 

"I wish we were meeting under better circumstances," Clarke says softly. Octavia nods, once, as brusque as the rest of her, and then the three of them stand there awkwardly.

"I'll be inside," Octavia says at last. "I - I'm gonna go see her. Before everyone else arrives."

The sound of her heels fades as she steps inside. A faint drizzle of rain begins, like a fog settling upon them, like Monty gently mists the jungle plants with a spray bottle. It's oddly comforting. Bellamy raises his chin and breathes out beneath the gray sky, and in that motion, Clarke sees that he will be okay, eventually.

**III.**

The next time Bellamy comes into the flowershop, it is September and he is putting himself back together. The shadows under his eyes are not as dark and purple against his golden skin, he stands straighter, and when Clarke comes out of the stock room to see who has made the front door’s bells chime, the smile he gives her comes easily.

Clarke would like to think, tentatively, that they are friends. Miller and Monty have cautiously begun to introduce their friend groups to each other, and this means she gets to see Bellamy outside of the flowershop or the gaming bar that she is _sure_ Madi only loves so much because he works there. She’s gotten so used to seeing him at the house he and Miller share, in bedhead and pajamas, absolutely failing to drive his Mario kart the right way on a track that it’s a bit of a shock to have him here now.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says very carefully as he approaches. He came into the shop far enough for the door to swing shut behind him, the bell chimes fading into peaceful silence, but he makes no move to take any further steps. “_Clarke_.”

She points at him.

“_Don’t_,” she says threateningly. His smile stretches wider into something that could be called a grin, and her heart skips a beat.

“This is an _unreasonable_ amount of pumpkins,” he says, completely ignoring her warning in favour of gesturing wildly at the overflowing crates of pumpkins and pumpkin-adjacent squash that are preventing him from moving any further into the stores. “Seriously - we have to talk about this.”

“I am doing my best!” Clarke says, throwing her hands up in the air.

“And I’m sure you are,” Bellamy says, in a voice that would be more convincingly soothing if he wasn’t totally failing to hold back his smile. “But… there are pumpkins in my way.”

“And there will continue to be pumpkins in your way until I can sell enough stock to clear a path,” Clarke says. “And because _someone_ fucked up and added an extra zero to the delivery manifest, we got a _hundred_ crates of pumpkins this morning instead of ten. Now, what are you doing in my shop?”

“Being a good, paying customer,” Bellamy says. “Show some patience. I don’t know who thought it was a good idea for you to go into retail. You have no customer sense whatsoever.” He waits a beat, long enough for her to roll her eyes, and adds, “I was hoping you’d be the one working today.”

The warm and tight feeling those words leaves in her chest are _past_ embarrassing.

“Thanks,” she says, hoping she doesn’t sound too choked, not knowing what else to say.

“I didn’t even know you _could_ get pumpkins from a florist.”

“It’s Halloween season, Bellamy.”

“It’s _September_.”

“I have to give the people what they want,” Clarke says. “Seriously, what did you come in for? If it’s in the back I’ll try to climb over pumpkins to get it. Just for you.”

He sticks his hands in the pockets of his sweater and Clarke’s heart is suddenly squeezed by a pang of fondness. The crush that began in his bar with the first sight of him smiling in her laurel crown has never really gone away. If anything, it’s only gotten worse as she gets to know him as a person.

“One of my coworkers is taking time off to have a baby,” Bellamy says, his eyes softening the way they always do at the sight or even _mention_ of children. It’s disgusting. Clarke loves it. “So I figured I’d get her flowers on behalf of the rest of us. But uh, I think I’m going to get her a pumpkin instead.”

“So generous of you,” Clarke says, putting a hand on her hip. “All right, pick one out.”

Bellamy runs an appraising gaze over the wall of pumpkins reaching up to his waist.

“…I’ll take a crate for the whole bar,” he says. “We’ll decorate for autumn. You want to help?”

Clarke bites her lip and tries to stay strong. Bellamy raises an eyebrow.

“Fine, yes, I really do,” she says after a long moment.

(It looks really, really good.)

(She knew it would.)

**IV.**

_Bellamy: Are you in the shop today?_

At the moment she gets that text, Clarke is balanced on a stool by the window of her living room, the curtains thrown wide to let the light in, and she is pretending to be painting. She is pretending because she is wearing her smock and has her hair braided up out of the way and all her paintbrushes lined up on the sill and a blank canvas set up on a stand in front of her, and she hasn’t put any paint on it at all because she doesn’t know what to paint.

Her phone vibrating next to her is a welcome distraction from the inspiration that isn’t coming, so she leaps for it eagerly. Her smile when she sees it’s Bellamy is wide and sunny and safe because there’s no one around to see.

_Clarke: not today, it’s my day off! trying to paint. whats up?_  
_Bellamy: Can I ask for florist advice on your day off?_  
_Clarke: for you, anything._

Is that too obvious? That’s probably too obvious. Clarke wishes Madi were here. She’s at the age where she’s very good at telling Clarke what’s embarrassing, but Clarke will have to power through without her, since she’s hanging out with a classmate until dinner.

Bellamy’s text takes a few more minutes to come, during which Clarke continues to make zero progress on her painting.

_Bellamy: I want to ask someone out with flowers. What would you recommend?_

Clarke’s heart falls and she feels it like a physical lurch, her shoulders hunching forward and her hand coming up to press against the sudden ache in her sternum. She takes a deep breath and forces that ache away, forces herself to sit up straight again and stare at her phone’s bright screen head-on. The urge to cry burns behind her eyes. She blinks furiously until it eases, becomes only a suggestion.

It’s fine, right?

Bellamy’s a grown-up. A beautiful, kind, caring person. Clarke has wondered more than once over the past few months they’ve been friends why he’s single when he has so much love in him to give, like a well-spring, a shock of cold mountain water bubbling up endlessly from beneath the rocks. Every time he smiles at her Clarke thinks that being loved like him would be like being loved by the sun.

It shouldn’t be such a surprise that he met someone. It’s only a surprise that it took so long, Clarke tells herself. They’ll say yes, of course. Maybe he’ll start bringing them around to hang out with the others. It’s for the best if Clarke starts to get used to that idea first. She shoves down her shattered heart and texts back with surprisingly steady hands.

_Clarke: it depends a lot on the person. what do you think they’d like?_  
_Bellamy: Well, she’s pretty intense, and I think she knows a lot about flowers._

_I probably know more_, Clarke thinks viciously, but this is Bellamy, and even though she’s burning inside she wants only the best for him.

_Clarke: okay. So, something elegant, but cool. I’m pretty sure we have a fresh shipment of tea roses in the back, ask Monty. Red’s probably too much, go for the blush. Baby’s breath and a few ferns for texture, and hmmmmmmm maybe forget-me-nots to round it off?_

Bellamy doesn’t text back for a few minutes.

_Bellamy: I got it. Clarke? Thanks._

She doesn’t respond. She throws the phone onto the couch, out of reach, and winds her fingers through her hair, tearing at tangles. It’s getting long again. She should cut it. That’s what you do when your heart is broken, right?

Clarke picks up her palette and starts mixing colours. Dark green and pale pinks with gray-blue shadows and a white poured out of a tube that she barely touches at all. She doesn’t sketch it out on the canvas, like she usually does, just starts layering paint on immediately. Her background doesn’t stretch to touch the edges of the canvas, and she likes it like that, as though the image is something she’s uncovering from behind the canvas, or something unfinished, a work in progress that will never be reciprocated or complete. The roses come together first, forming the bulk of the bouquet both in her experience as a florist and on the canvas. Gray-blue for the forget-me-nots that poke through like reaching fingers. The ferns come next, sweeping out from the sides, drooping along the arch of her grief.

An hour later she leans back from the canvas and groans as something in her back pops. There have been a few paintings in her life that poured out of her as quickly as this one, but the intensity of her need to get it down on canvas still shocks and scares her. She walks around her empty house, wishing Madi were back already, wishing she could get a hug. Chugs a whole glass of ice-cold water and feels the chill of it in her belly.

She has just sat back down on the stool and picked up her smallest paintbrush to start dotting in the baby’s breath when the doorbell rings.

Clarke glances at the clock, but Madi’s not due to be back for another hour. She hopes, dearly, that she hasn’t gotten into another fight and stomped home on her own again, and this worry makes her run to the door without a second thought for her messy smock or the paint streaking wildly up her arms to the elbows. She yanks open the door, and -

“Bellamy?” Clarke asks.

He looks like a dream. He’s holding out pale roses and forget-me-nots, with the ferns and the baby’s breath she recommended - commanded - him to get.

“You’ve got paint on your cheek,” he says, and he steps forward, rubbing at her jaw intently. Clarke struggles to breathe.

“Are these for me?” she asks.

“Only if you want them,” Bellamy says, and she can’t believe the faint crease of worry around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders that tells her he thinks there’s even the tiniest possibility she wouldn’t want him.

“Oh, Bellamy,” she says. “You haven’t been paying attention.”

And she steps forward and hugs him very tightly, pressing her cheek against the warmth of her shoulder. Neither of them remember the paint on her arms until well afterwards.

Madi comes home only a few minutes after the pizza. She takes in the flowers propped up in a vase, the candles, and the three plates set at the table.

“Took you guys long enough,” she says, a little grudgingly. She keeps staring at the third plate. “But uh. You know, I could just eat in my room. It’s probably not fun to have a kid third-wheeling your first real date.”

“It was fun when you third-wheeled us the first time we met,” Bellamy says. “And it’ll be fun now.”

“Just wash your hands and sit down,” Clarke says, crossing the room to give her a big hug. Madi bats at her arms, but her smile is wide and pleased and full of hope. Like Clarke’s. Like Bellamy’s, too, when they finally part to look at him.

**\+ I**

“I can’t believe you forgot the flowers,” Madi gripes, peering through a crack in the curtains. “You’re a _florist_.”

“I had ten million other things to worry about today,” Clarke says for maybe the third time in the last ten minutes. “Have,” she amends. “There’s still time for something to go horribly wrong.”

“Something _else_ to go horribly wrong, you mean?” Madi says. She is fifteen now, and more inclined to complain with every passing day. “In addition to this?”

“We won’t die if there’s no flowers, Madi. People go through life without flowers all the time.”

“Not for the important days,” Madi insists. “Not for _weddings_. How fast can Monty work?”

Clarke and Monty usually take at least a few hours for wedding bouquets. They’re dense work, with very particular customers, and they usually need complicated binding…

They only realized about forty minutes ago that in the whirlwind of preparations… someone forgot to account for a bouquet. And Monty, who might just be the best person on the planet, raced back to the shop to throw one together.

“There’s a _lot_ of people out there,” Madi says, peering out the window again. “I hope no one’s told Bellamy. He’ll have a Victorian crisis.”

“Oh my god,” Clarke mumbles. She’s about to drop her face into her hands before Madi sees her and all but leaps across the room to swat her hands away.

“Stop that!” she says. “We worked _really_ hard on your makeup, you do not get to ruin it now with ten minutes to go!”

“We should have eloped,” Clarke says.

“Grandma would have rioted,” Madi points out. She thinks for a moment. “Octavia too, probably.”

Clarke gathers her skirts and stands up with a sigh. Lace trails at her heels as she walks to the window Madi just left. A moment later Madi tucks herself under Clarke’s arm and her warmth and weight against Clarke’s side makes her smile. She’s getting tall now. She’ll probably be taller than Clarke, when she’s done growing. They already joke about it.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Clarke says, and kisses Madi’s hair. Madi starts to give her an exasperated look and then, seeing Clarke’s face, settles for a smile instead.

They almost miss Monty’s car pulling up in front. He parks it haphazardly and all but tumbles out of the driver’s seat, a bouquet in hand. Clarke watches him race up the path and disappear from their view beneath the window’s viewing angle.

“Come on, come on!” Madi says, grabbing Clarke’s hand and dragging her out of the room. “It’s go time!”

Monty meets them halfway down the stairs, breathing heavily. Clarke hugs him tightly before even looking at the bouquet, more grateful that he made it for her than caring what the end result looks like. He pushes her off impatiently.

“We have a _wedding_ to catch,” he hisses at her, forcibly wrapping her hands around the bouquet.

“I love you so much,” Clarke tells him as he and Madi march her down the stairs, one on each side as if guarding her from finding any other major disasters to attend to along the way. “I can’t believe how fast you put this together, you should get a medal.”

“Thank me later, get married now,” Monty says, and then the doors are opening in front of her. There’s a rush of sound, and a wind like a train coming down a tunnel, and tens of faces both familiar and strange turning to look at her, but Clarke barely notes any of it. At the end of the walk, there’s Bellamy, and he’s the most beautiful thing in the room.

Abby told her there’s a certain rhythm she has to walk down the aisle to, that she should time it by the organ’s melody, but Clarke has no idea what that is or why it matters anymore. She gets to the end of the carpet not knowing if she was too fast or too slow, only sure that the expression on Bellamy’s face tells her it was the right time.

Clarke doesn’t look down until she’s standing right in front of him. It’s the first time she actually registers the bouquet in her hands. There, tucked among the roses and the lilacs, are sprigs of laurel.

She laughs out loud, bright and delighted, as the organ music fades out.

**Author's Note:**

> I am.... not good at fluff, and I don’t know shit about flowershops, but for you, Jess, I tried.  
The flowers that Monty is holding the first time he talks to Miller are gladioluses, which are said to represent strength, honour, and infatuation. ;)  
The hyacinths he’s tending when Clarke gets the call about Aurora’s death mean sorrow, regret and forgiveness.  
The bouquet Bellamy asks Clarke out with includes roses for the obvious romantic implications, as well as forget-me-nots (true love, ‘don’t forget me’ - which is what Clarke is subconsciously hoping when she thinks he’s interested in someone else) and baby’s breath just generally means pure love and sincerity, but I mostly threw it in there for texture (along with the ferns.)
> 
> The Victorian crisis that Madi jokes about seeing Bellamy in is shamelessly borrowed from one of @carrieeve’s tumblr tags that makes me lose my marbles every single time I see it. 
> 
> The title of this fic comes from Sleeping At Last’s [Four](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qBhMFBo37Y). Since you are here, reading a Bellarke fanfiction, you probably already know of Sleeping At Last because his other song [North](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VrtMWD7rj1Y) was highkey a Bellarke anthem for several years, but if you don’t know it yet, oh boy, click on that and get you some feelings. However, Four is for @thefangirlingbarista. Jess, thanks for a) requesting this and b) being you. <3
> 
> You can read up more on the [bellarkebingo challenge](https://bellarkebingo.tumblr.com/) here, and see my bingo card [here](url). Thank you for reading!
> 
> **EDIT: baellamyblake commented to say that in Italy it's tradition to give graduates laurel wreaths! Isn't that a great fun fact? Thank you for sharing baellamyblake! :)**


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